Country living ain’t my thing
Waking up to the sound of my breath
hurling hostile stones, I bury
my face until the morning mist nudges me.
The blue bedspread spread, like the hips
of a seventeen-year old cheerleader,
over the angry February trees.
The breeze, grunting mother bear,
announcing its unwelcomed arrival,
and the spring, lurking around, shivers.
The silence of the hills, the faith
in unlocked doors and cars make me
write verses of sadness every night.
The voluptuous orange in the sunset
an introduction to the odor of solitude.
I wait for a firefly to keep me company.
My shadow hides behind
the feast of termites as darkness
perforates and hisses, “You’re alone.”
I mutter half-sinking: Hated the hills
growing up, hate bucolic living even today.
♠ ♥ ♣ ♦
My own place
One day I will have my own house
with walls the color of turmeric.
The fragrance of jasmine would impregnate
the current of the winds.
Gates of happiness lit with imprints of baby steps
would brighten every corner between bricks.
Seated in a rocking chair,
my braid will sway back and forth.
My shadow will finally not stare
at the blades of the ceiling fan,
eager to end my misery.
I will finally have my place
to grieve and return to life.